Cold As Dawn
by Adrian Winter
Summary: [HD Slash] Harry goes through some rather drastic changes during the summer after his fifth year, and decides that enough is enough. He's not going to let anyone control him ever again. Vampire!Harry and Manipulative!Dumbledore


A/N: This idea has been in my head for a while; it's been done many times, but this is my own take on it! Takes place summer after fifth year. AU due to HBP.

Will be Slash!

Dislaimer: I Don't own Harry Potter. Duh.

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**Cold As Dawn**

CHAPTER 1

It was half past eleven at night; the only light (other than the dim street lamps) on Privet Drive came from the smallest bedroom window of Number 4. It dripped groggily through the panes and glass, creating cross shadows of bushes and mailboxes. A young wizard with striking green eyes sat shivering on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, reading by the light of a feeble lamp on the desk next to the bed. It was in the middle of the summer, and the temperature in the room reflected it at a stifling 89 degrees Fahrenheit, but his skin was icy and stiff.

Harry was starting to panic. He'd had this weird cold for almost a week now. Sure, it had started off harmless enough at just a slight chill. But it had steadily been getting worse, making him shiver and layer his clothing, despite the unwanted extra attention he was getting for it. His aunt had forbad him from doing chores outside unless he wore a normal amount of clothes– what would the neighbors think of a person wearing that much in 90 degree weather?

Speaking of the Dursleys, they hadn't been all that bad. There was an unspoken agreement that Harry would do chores, and they would let him eat. They mostly ignored each other.

This left him with plenty of time to dwell in his ever growing depression. And what was there not to be depressed about? He'd practically killed Sirius, almost gotten his friends killed, he had an over controlling old coot keeping watch on him all day and night, he was supposed to defeat the nastiest Dark Lord in ages, and to top it all off, his visions were getting worse.

It was nothing useful, of course. No plans or information. Just the raids as they were happening; one-sided battle fields of terrified screams and maniacal laughter. Innocent families watching each other being magically disemboweled before being allowed the mercy of death. Rape and destruction reigned, brought about by figures in midnight and ivory. Horribly empty eyes that stared through him, asking him why they had to die– why Harry hadn't saved them.

It became too much. He'd wake drenched in sweat, a strangled cry caught in his throat; there would be a suffocating churning sickness in his stomach, and a sob would be wrenched from is throat at he stumbled into the bathroom to vomit.

He felt broken. The visions, coupled with ordinary nightmares of Sirius' death, left him empty and miserable.

He'd actually contemplated suicide a couple of times. He even went so far as getting a knife from the kitchen and locking himself in the bathroom. But he couldn't do it. He was too much of a coward; not brave enough to live, not brave enough to die.

And now, he was certain he _was_ dying, whether he wanted to or not. The coldness had intensified to an unbearable point, shocking him momentarily out of his depression and making him panic. It crept under his skin, through his veins, and into his heart. An ice-cold violation that burned and hindered his breathing. He felt like crying, but didn't have the energy. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he really going to die like this?

As the clock ticked, steadily drawing closer to midnight and his birthday, his breathes grew more shallow, and his heart slowed, despite his panic. His mind ran in circles around all the things that he still had to do, the people that he still had to protect. It suddenly occurred to him that he should call for help, but he could barely move, let alone write and send a letter.

He was lying down on the stiff mattress now, gasping feebly as his lungs weakened. With a jolt of dread he realized that his limbs were growing numb and that he couldn't move them. And then, even his mind began to slow, and a floaty calm settled over him; would death really be all that bad? Hadn't he been considering suicide? This certainly would be less messy than slitting his wrists, he thought morbidly. Soon, he wasn't breathing at all; his vision grew gray as his heart grew dangerously lethargic. Five seconds from midnight, his heart stopped beating all together.

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

_Tick._

The clock struck twelve.

As it did, Harry's heart gave a wrenching beat, and he gasped painfully, his lungs burning and his eyes snapping wide open. His weak frame was wracked by spasms as nauseating pain lanced through every nerve in his body. The coldness had left, replaced by an unbearable conflagration, spread by the now insistent beating of his heart.

His chest ached horribly; something was being dragged through his veins, urged on by his hollow heart– something was missing, and the need for whatever it was filled his whole being.

Tears streaming out of his eyes, Harry ground his teeth together to keep from screaming. He gave a gasping moan of agony as a sharp pain burned in his shoulder blades, and in a moment of lost coherence, he gave a scream as something terrifying painful burst from his back. The shadows in the room, those that lay under the bed, around various objects, and lurking in the corners, flared and gave silent screams of their own.

Then, as the shadows calmed and stilled, the pain faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only a dull ache of an unknown need in his chest as he sobbed and shuddered. He lie on the bed, shaken and gasping for breath; sweat and blood the he hadn't known he had shed covered him and the blankets. He was exhausted, but he used some of his remaining energy to look into the mirror.

He gave a choked gasp at the not-so-subtle changes that had occurred. A massive set of pitch black wings now came from his back, and he detached-ly figured that was what had burst from it. The feathers glinted with a comforting green iridescent sheen, and as he lifted a trembling hand to touch them, they were as soft as they looked. Harry's focus shifted then to his face, or more precisely his mouth, which now sported a rather sharp looking set of fangs.

He felt what little color he had left drain from his face; was this what he thought this was? Was he really a– ?

His thoughts were cut of, however, as several people apparated into his room. He shrank back into the corner, his wings curling tightly against and in front of him, an unspoken sign that he sorely wished not to deal with other people at the moment. Going unnoticed, the shadows shifted restlessly.

"Ah, Harry, my boy, I see we've gone through some unexpected changes," Dumbledore was, of course, the first of the three to speak, and with a wave of his wand, had the blood and sweat cleaned up. Standing behind him were Tonks and Snape, one looking worried, the other extremely disgruntled.

Harry was torn between trying to stay calm, or asking all the questions that he could at once. Seeing other people there made it more real, somehow, and the panic was starting to come back. And that persistent ache wouldn't go away.

He finally opted for trying to stay calm.

"What happened to me?" Harry couldn't keep his voice from trembling.

"It seems that your parents had a secret or two that not even I knew about," Dumbledore replied, vague as always. He continued, sympathy in his voice but not his eyes. "Though I suspected something like this would happen, I never thought it would be quite so violent or painful. For this, I am sorry."

Harry had to swallow the lump of anger that had risen in his throat as the still unnoticed shadows grew even more restless. More things that the man had kept from him. Things about his parents, things that would obviously be affecting him in major ways. And, considering the fact that Harry hadn't yet said anything about what he had just gone through, Dumbledore had either been spying on him, or had known the whole bloody time.

"I don't understand," Harry stated tiredly, internally irritated at the ache that kept growing. He could smell something peculiar now, tantalizingly close and agitating the hunger inside him– it was coming from all three of the people in front of him.

"Many magical beings come into their inheritance on their sixteenth birthday," Dumbledore said, "Inheritances happen when a person has genes of a magical creature or being from their parents, and is not able to handle the added power or characteristics as an infant or child. An inheritance is a way for the child to mature normally and receive these without much harm. There are many factors that determine whether or not a child will inherit these genes, and they are not all completely understood."

Harry almost growled at the drawn-out way in which the headmaster was speaking. Had he always been this irritating? Sure he was being explanatory, but it was clearly a way to side-step the main question of what exactly was Harry? And why had he never heard of his parents being magical beings or creatures?

"That's all well and fine, sir," Harry replied rather dryly, getting an unnoticed raised eyebrow from Snape, "But what exactly _am_ I now?"

Dumbledore paused, gazing at the teen with an infuriating calmness, and finally said, "You, Harry, are a vampire."

That one statement confirmed his fears. A whooshing sound pulsed methodically in his ears, and he felt light headed in shock. The fangs had made him suspect, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. And the ache... he knew now was the bloodlust.

A thought occurred to him, and he swallowed, trying to get himself back into control as he said, "Vampires are technically dead, thought, aren't they? How can I be...?"

Tonks, who had been standing weary and without her usual spunk throughout the whole conversation, suddenly turned even paler than she had been before as she said, "When the wards went off, they showed that... your heart had stopped beating for about five seconds, so..."

So he really had died. Even for only a few moments, he had been gone, his body lying cold and lifeless. Despite his earlier thoughts of offing himself, it was still a disturbing thought.

Harry just looked at them. He really didn't know how to respond to that. He was starting to lose concentration... he sorely needed something, blood, he knew know, and was starting to wonder how he was going to get it.

"You needn't worry about a thing, though, Harry. A few of the inner circle have already started researching ways of binding these new, ah, additions of yours. If we are successful, you won't need to drink nearly as much blood as a normal vampire; it will almost be as if this never happened." Dumbledore finished with an eerie smile on his face.

Again, Harry found himself suppressing shudders of rage and angst at the words coming from the headmaster. Bind his vampire side? His wings, and whatever else he had gained? He didn't even know what he could do yet, and Dumbledore wanted him to ignore and forget about it? There was no 'vampire side', no 'extra additions'; Harry knew, though he wasn't sure how, this was an irreplaceable part of him. He was a vampire, and this fact was now entwined with his being. It was like Dumbledore was telling him that soon he wouldn't be able to breath.

And, interestingly enough, the thought of drinking blood was not as horrible as he thought it would be. Perhaps it had something to do with the bloodlust that was now almost overwhelming, but he just couldn't bring himself to feel bad about wanting to drink someone's blood. They had already learned about vampires (albeit not that much) in DADA; he could take blood without killing or injuring anybody, so why should it be a problem?

Besides him now being a 'dark' magical being, that is. He internally gave a dry smile at the irony. The savior of the wizarding world, a dirty, evil vampire. He almost laughed.

Getting back to what the headmaster had said, how _could_ he forget? You don't just forget literally freezing to death, and then coming back to life as a blood-sucking creature of the night!

Instead of saying all this though, Harry, in an inspired piece of acting, said, seemingly relieved, "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore. I appreciate it."

The old coot merely smiled, and turned slightly to look at Snape. "Severus, if you would?"

The potions master stepped forward, wordlessly thrusting a vile of potion into Harry's range of reach. He took it, and in the split second that he locked eyes with Snape, he found a myriad of things that he had not expected.

The first of which, was the fact that he could read the emotions in his eyes, something which he'd never been very good at. But now, Harry could easily see past the man's mask of disdain; the potions master's obsidian eyes held not contempt, but rather mild curiosity and a hint of– was that concern?

Forcing himself back into the present, Harry looked at the bottle of potion in his hands. He opened it, and the bloodlust gave a painful lurch in his chest as he caught the scent. This wasn't blood, but it was something very similar and it was close enough. The young Gryffindor downed the potion, feeling the ache settle to a dull, bearable level.

"What is this?" He asked mildly, looking up at the headmaster.

"That is a blood restorative potion. It won't completely satisfy your need for blood, but it will dull it considerably." The old wizard replied, "Professor Snape will arrive each morning and night to administer the potion, for the rest of the summer or until the potion is no longer effective."

Harry nodded, and asked, "But sir, how could nobody have known that one or both of my parents were vampires?"

"It's possibly that they both simply had recessive genes... but we'll talk about that later."

At Harry's reluctant nod, he smiled and said, "Well, for now I think you ought to get some rest. We shall take our leave. Oh, and I would prefer that you didn't tell your friends about this, for now. There are many ways to intercept a letter, after all. Besides, there will soon be nothing to tell."

Then the three of them disapparated, leaving Harry to himself.

As soon as they had left, he dropped his head to his knees, hugging them tightly to himself in exhaustion. His wings enveloped him in a warm and comforting embrace. While he tried to think of what to do nest, the shadows drew close to him protectively. Dumbledore obviously planned to keep Harry within his control; dropping hints of explanations, just enough information to keep him asking questions, but not enough answers to satisfy him; keeping him isolated from his friends both physically and emotionally; without anyone to confide in, he would become stressed and even more depressed, making him more susceptible to the Headmaster's manipulations. And wasn't it just convenient that he had to stick around so Snape, of all people, could bring him something that he needed to live.

And that was another thing to think about, wasn't it? Had Snape always been acting, or was he just intrigued by Harry's new vampirism? No matter the reason, Harry wouldn't make any move of hostility unless Snape did; he would let go of the grudge they had between them if Snape would. If it had even been real in the first place. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he could trust the greasy Slytherin. He'd have to do some research on his new vampire instincts, because they obviously had something to do with his sudden shift in character judgement.

Harry decided he wasn't going to be controlled. He wasn't going to be weak. He was going do whatever it took to defeat Voldemort, and keep his friends safe.

And he was going to live life for himself. Dumbledore could go to hell; Harry knew that the Headmaster had never truly cared for him– it had all been a rouse to guarantee his loyalty to the Light. He could think of so many things that could have been better, things that could have been prevented, if he'd been told the truth from the beginning.

Well, he'd had enough.

Harry decided that some of the first things he needed to do were to leave Privet Drive, and gather certain things so that he could live and study on his own. What was the point of staying there anyway? How could his Mother's blood protection possibly be valid anymore if that very blood now ran through Voldemort's veins?

He needed to study so he could defeat Voldemort. How dense was Dumbledore, anyway? How in Merlin's name was he supposed to even match the old tosser in a decent duel if he wasn't being trained?

Harry raised his head with a small sigh. The big question was now, of course, what was he going to do next? He couldn't stay here, as had been previously established. He felt restless, the uncomfortable feeling of being around his relative had grown, and he no longer felt even remotely safe there. Not that he had any place to go. Hogwarts was, for obvious reasons, was out of the question. He would, of course, go back for schooling, but only after he had learned as much as he could about being a vampire so Dumbledore couldn't force him to do anything he didn't want to.

The burrow was out too– he valued Ron's friendship, but the youngest male of the Weasley clan would surely take some convincing when it came to Dumbledore; the entire Weasley family was entirely loyal to the man. Not to mention the fact that Ron would probably blanch at the thought of Harry being a dark creature. No, he would deal with that conflict later. He didn't have Hermione's address or phone number, and though she was unquestionably more intelligent she was also firmly set in strictly black and white when it came to magic or right and wrong. There was no grey for her, at least as far as he could tell. Or for Ron, for that matter.

The Leaky Cauldron was the only thing that came to mind, but he would surely be recognized there. So, he would either have to find a way to disguise himself, or stay somewhere in muggle London. But he would nee a disguise anyway in order to get through Diagon Alley unnoticed, since he would need money, naturally; Gringotts was the only place that he knew of that he could get money– muggle or wizard.

Harry huffed in annoyance. He didn't really have the resources to change his appearance enough so he could walk around freely. Oh, and he had almost forgotten...

The lanky teenager edged his way over to the mirror, and experimentally flexed his wings. It was an odd felling, having a rather large set of brand new limbs. His shoulder blades still tingled, but they no longer hurt, and he could tell they had healed already. He sat, stretching and furling his wings, admiring their span and strength; he expected them to be weak, considering that they had just been 'grown', so to speak. But then, Harry supposed they must be magical too...

Suddenly Harry's vision dimmed slightly, and as he blinked he noticed that his wings had a soft, green aura around them, swirling out from between the feathers, glowing and sparkling softly. Harry looked down at himself, seeing the same light all around him, though it seemed... dormant, and though it glowed, it didn't sparkle. Quickly glancing around the room, Harry noticed other things that glowed.

The wizarding photo on his desk of his parents glowed, and every time one of the picture people moved, it gave off a pulse of sparkles. Opening his trunk, he wasn't surprised to see that his wand and broom glowed, though they didn't sparkle. His cloak also glowed, until he picked it up and placed it experimentally over his hand, which of course disappeared; when it did, the cloak shot off a steady stream of sparkles until he removed it and placed it back into his trunk.

It was magic. He was seeing magic itself... he couldn't be sure, but he supposed that if something sparkled and glowed, then it was magical and actively using magic; only glowing would then be inert magic.

Curiously, Harry looked out his window, and was startled to see all the trees, flowers, plants, and even the grass actually had a dim glow to them.

But that couldn't be right... surely there weren't magical plants on a street so strictly... well, un-magical?

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes briefly and then opened them, concentrating on being able to see the magic.

And suddenly, all of the auras were brighter, and more abundant. Everything on the street was glowing to some degree and even the air was sparkling. Turning his gaze, Harry saw that it was the same inside his dingy room. There was magic _everywhere_, not just in things that had been dubbed 'magic'.

Harry looked back at his wings again, and then cringed, shutting his eyes and concentrating on getting his sight back to normal. His wings had been blinding-ly bright– he would have to learn how to quickly be able to adjust his new 'sight'.

Opening his eyes again, Harry was happy to have his vision back to normal. Now, he just had to figure out how to hide his wings.

The young vampire experimentally pulled his wings flush against his back and willed them to disappear. He gasped as he felt an intense and heated (but not painful) pressure against his shoulder blades, and then a cooling sensation as the air hit his bare back once again.

Confirming his suspicions in the mirror, Harry grinned at his now wingless back, bringing his fangs back to his attention. With only a thought, he felt another odd sensation in his mouth as his canines shifted back to an acceptable size.

So, now he looked normal, but he also still looked like Harry Potter. A hooded cloak would be good enough for now, he supposed. But he still needed a mode of transportation and a place to stay for the rest of the summer.

Sighing, Harry flopped down onto his bed, suddenly realizing that it was almost morning and that he was exhausted. One more day at Privet Drive wouldn't hurt, right? Harry rolled over onto his stomach and summoned his wings and fangs (he didn't want anyone to know that he'd gained any control over his new abilities until he was in _complete_ control), and let the weight of this exhaustion pull him down into unconsciousness.

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A/N: Reviews are always appreciated!

Til next chapter!

;-;Adrian Winter;-;


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